At home again, when all is picked, and everybody sees
How muddy all our dresses are, and drabbled to the knees.
IX.
I saw this morning through the door a pleasant day set in;
Be sure I quickly dressed my hair and neatly fixed my pin,
And fleetly sped I down the path to gain the wonted spot,
But, never thinking of the mire, my working shoes forgot!
X.
The garden reached, my bow-shaped shoes are soaking through and through;
The sky is changed—the thunder rolls—and I don’t know what to do;